Fear and Prejudice

These two words rarely go together in a sentence or in a title like this but if you were me in a situation described here, they could inhabit your character like mud on your face. 

I was in Veteran’s Memorial Driving Range practicing my swings when a man about my age and build walked past my lane tugging a golf bag. He set his clubs across the lane next to mine. Nothing unusual about that. What caught my attention was that he was smoking a cigarette! Last time I checked, smoking in sports facilities like this should not be allowed. And I hate the smell of smoke.

This range is frequented by military men and high-ranking city government officials. And that thought shut out any courage in me to tell him to go away with his lit cigarette and be cast into hell. I dread the thought of being whacked in the head with a shiny Taylormade Stealth driver. If his grip was strong, it would slice my temple. If neutral, hook my jaw. Dreadful, either way.

That was fear.

A few puffs later, another man joined him. He was greeted by the smokin’ man, “Good morning, sir. Ready for your lessons today?”

Sonnafagun! He was just an effing golf pro. A golf trainer -in my mind, lower than the pedestalled gun-wielding 5-star general I previously took him for. I could have acted differently. Bravely. Arrogantly righteous!

That was prejudice.

My good character reared its ugly head. But I was quick to realize it and as penance, I made a few steps closer to where they were and snuffed in all the smoke in the air. Then beat my breast in silent atonement. Mea culpa.

I went back to my swings. Coughing, every now and then.

Oh well. Fore!

                                                     

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Old and Ugly

Lining up to pay in a supermarket counter, I was sandwiched by a couple of happy, old-but-not-too old lady and a gentleman who, by the level of the excitement I witnessed, maybe old ‘hood friends but have not seen each other for quite some time.

Lady in front me: “Hey, Frank, long time. How are you?”

Frank at the back: “They said I’m old and ugly. I said, ‘Not yet, but I’m getting there!'”

They had a good laugh. At my ears’ expense. More yakitty yak yak after that. Man, they were loud!

It took a while for my brain to process what Frank meant when he said, “Not yet, but I’m getting there,” and laughed loud about it. There was too much yak-yak noise at the front and at the back for proper processing.

Then, at the sound of the POS machine scanning the load of stuff in my cart, I had a grasp.

He must have meant we’re all getting there -old. You and I. We all. We get older by a second every second, by a minute every minute, by an hour every hour, by a freakin’ day every freakin’ day, ad infinitum. Then when we finally reach the end and we die, our bodies decay, decompose, rot, or get burned. Same process: slowly, second by second by every second. That’s uglier than ugly, bruh. Uh-huh!

Ugly. But true.

And if you don’t laugh about it, you lose.

So Frank, I catch your drift, man. That day, I left Costco with less money than I had when I got in, but with a new perspective full of happy thoughts.

Here’s to you. Cheers!

                                             

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One Starry Night on a Summer Day

I am not much of an artsy person. My appreciation of art is no deeper than my belly button. I’ve seen the Mona Lisa ages ago in The Louvre. I went straight from the entrance to where it hang. I remember getting lost on the way because I walked past the same trash bins and Attention: Sol Mouillé signages on the floor several times -never mind the art works. I literally ignored Venus de Milo because she didn’t wave at me for my attention.

Decades prior, the curious cat in me was wildly tickled by a 1971 song written and sung by Don Mclean, Vincent. The song, also known as the “Starry, starry night,” was an homage to the artist, Vincent Van Gogh and his works. Since then, seeing the Starry Night with its flaming flowers that brightly blaze, and its swirling clouds in violet haze became a lifelong dream. 

I finally got to live the dream last summer. At the Museum of Modern Art.

With the excitement growing in me, I breezed through “less popular” Matisses, Monets, Gaugins and Picassos. And other names I could not pronounce. In my mind, they were all eclipsed by the beauty I was about to behold.

I knew right away that I’ve reached the one gallery I’ve wanted to be in. Like a rock star,the Starry Night, was surrounded by fans and dreamers like me. I wove through a landscape of smelly armpits and clicking camera phones to find out what a dream looks like in reality. And then, finally:

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how

Perhaps they’ll listen now 

But, really, no. I don’t claim to understand what was in the artist’s mind when he painted. But looking closer at this obra, I found a new dimension to the lyrics of the song:

Shadows on the hills

Sketch the trees and the daffodils

Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

That was the summer I met Vincent whose other works, Self Portrait and Bedroom in Arles -I’ve also seen at the Art Institute of Chicago. My belly button pit just got deeper. 

                                

                                

Cheers!

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One Good Morning

Life is predictable.

I am alive now but I will die sooner or later. Predictable, ain’t it?

And that makes for a happy wife. Not that I will die soon but because of it, we decided to make more memories so that one will have more to remember -and forget, when the other has moved on.

At our age, memories are just some of the few things that we can still make, produce and reproduce effortlessly without the assistance of a caregiver. So why not make them, right?

So this morning after attending mass at our parish, we drove off north along Mindanao avenue to look for a place to have a decent breakfast. Ye beach, it’s a Saturdate!

Scanning both left and right of the avenue for a carinderia, or a bakery that serves my favorite sugar-raised donut, or a hole-in-the-wall 3-star Michelin restaurant, we drove near and far. But who are we kidding? A Saturday morning breakfast at Starbucks trumps all those. Besides, I need to go to the bathroom quick. Damn old renal tubules that even daily kegels can’t fix!

Starbucks, it is.

So what did we talk about worthy of the golden memories of tomorrow? You. Because you weren’t there, we talked about you. And oh, this and that. Some of no importance, making them seem important. And then some more. My lovely breakfast mate had them endless. We talked about ’em while the morning sun sets its warm rays on my shiny head.

Next time, we try South or Southeast. Wherever my bladder takes us.

Cheers!

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Crossings

Long before I’ve picked up the game of golf, I’ve always wondered what’s the inside of a golf hole looks like. Like is there a chance a scorpion lurks in there waiting for a hand? When my brother and my bros-in-law gather, they’d talk seriously about their crazy sport much like cardinals do when electing a new pope. Back then, I didn’t understand why drive a small ball with a long thin stick into a tiny hole hundred yards away under the heat of a scorching sun. No way, Rory. I’ll never play. 

That was then. Now, because I play the crazy game, I understand golfers better. I’ve seen what’s and what’s not inside that hole. And why drive that small ball with a long stick? I’m not telling you!

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Before this K-pop craze and prior to traveling to South Korea, I didn’t like Korean food. I did not approve of the Korean ‘invasion’ of the Philippines -the restos, the students, the music. But after visiting South Korea, I met and befriended some nice Koreans that led to a change of heart… and palate. The travel tamed my own prejudices towards Korea. Now kimchi and ramyeon are a staple food for me. K-drama, too!

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Coffee for me then was piping hot, white and sweet. I didn’t get it when people drink it black. I mean, where’s the fun in a bitter bold brew? Ain’t it supposed to brighten up a sleepy day? But after my son, Andre, brought in his espresso machine, I learned what real coffee is -more than just a simple beverage. The notes. And the aroma. The comfort it brings. The bitterness depreciated slowly until it wasn’t anymore. I am a changed coffee man.

______________

I could go on with more of these crossing stories: running; having covid; being a father with rowdy little tykes; getting old; losing hair. I’ve jumped from one end of the 38th parallel to the other to learn a lesson.

When you find a connection, you find appreciation and respect.

I raise this cup. Cheers!

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A Birthday Letter to My Unica Hija

Dear Nikkei,

You were probably five or seventeen years old. We were in front of a Mcdonald’s counter ordering food. You wanted a Happy Meal. I said, NO! -with the authority of a military captain waiting for a promotion. You then buried your face into mommy’s side and cried. Mom’s blouse was drenched in a blend of salty tears and sweet mucus. It melted my ice cream cone and ruined the rhythm of my cone-twisting and licking. I never intended to make you cry. If only I knew the hidden effects of a Happy-Meal-Not-Served, I wouldn’t have said No! right away. I may have probably toned down to a “Not again, sweety.” Or, “Maybe tomorrow, princess. Coochie coochie, ya ya.”

This true story never departed from my now-rotten memory bank. It took a while for me to recover from that melted ice cream. It was a waste of food and created an ugly mess in my hands, you must understand. 

That must have been the start of our agree-disagree, approve-disapprove father-daughter clash relationship. I’m sure you won’t agree. So what else is new. We’ve become the definition of far-from-normal healthy father-daughter relationship.

We were always at the opposite ends of the spectrum, side A-side B, micro-macro, black-white, pottatto-potaytow. You want more? Red-blue, left-right. But wait! We’re both left-handed! See, we’ve got something in common.

Maybe that’s not all. Afterall, ve love our bread and ve love our butter. But most of all, ve love each otheur.

And for the cheesy part, that ice cream thing is just my heart. And that captain is just Von Trapp.

Happy birthday, Nikkei! ¡Te quiero mucho, mi querida hija!

I raise this cup to Nikkei index up by one!

Seriously,

Your Dadda.

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TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO TODAY

Did you know that 1994 and 2022 share the same calendar? I regret throwing that 1994 calendar the following year. It would have saved me 100 pesos buying a new one. A Jollibee Chicken Joy meal would have been more satiable. But there was one decision I made that proved to be the best: 1994 was the year I married the most beautiful woman in the world. This year, we celebrate 28 years of being together.

28 years have changed a lot in us. Just like the number of days in a month, there were ups and downs. But unlike the calendar months, there is one thing that's always on the up side in all the 28 years -my love for my bride.

Happy 28th anniversary, Doe-a Dear. Let's make more -anniversaries together.

I love you!